


Sweat

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Shameless [22]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Armpit Licking, Belts, Blow Jobs, Filthy, Licking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28576617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Some mornings, Dean wakes with a feeling he can’t quite shake, no matter what he does. Food doesn’t satisfy him, neither does stepping behind the wheel or singing at the top of his lungs. Back at the bunker, he can perfect his aim in the range downstairs to take his mind off it, or read, or spend the day cleaning his guns.But nothing works. And today, he wakes up with a pressure in his gut that screams at him formore.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Shameless [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/464476
Comments: 29
Kudos: 240
Collections: Angel’s Supernatural favorites





	Sweat

Some mornings, Dean wakes with a feeling he can’t quite shake, no matter what he does. Food doesn’t satisfy him, neither does stepping behind the wheel or singing at the top of his lungs. Back at the bunker, he can perfect his aim in the range downstairs to take his mind off it, or read, or spend the day cleaning his guns.

But nothing works. And today, he wakes up with a pressure in his gut that screams at him for _more_. More of what, he doesn’t know, but his cock seems to have an idea where it tents in his briefs. Half-lidded, he looks up at the ceiling and thinks about getting off right there, but someone else in the room. Someone that isn’t his brother, but more approachable, with eyes that cut like steel and a neck that Dean would like to bruise purple with his teeth. Said person sits on the opposite bed, idly flipping through one of Dean’s on-the-road paperbacks, oblivious to the predicament going on in Dean’s underwear.

They have a job to do today—three bodies to torch at a cemetery outside of town, and the only reason they stopped for the night was because it took them twelve hours to make the second part of their drive. Dean nearly passed out behind the wheel; Castiel took over by force, just to make sure he didn't drive through a median or off a cliff. Probably for the best, considering.

But now that he’s awake, his mind wanders, even after he claws his way out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom, cock absolutely throbbing, trapped behind tight elastic. Jerking off in the shower doesn’t help, not when he can’t stop thinking about Castiel’s hands on him last night, shoving him across the bench and into the passenger seat, annoyed as sin. Maybe it started then—or, maybe it’s been hanging around for years, finally beginning to fester. Whatever the reason, Dean uses it, imagines it’s Castiel hand on his cock, on his shoulder, forcing his legs wider from behind. Castiel wound bruise him, would use him and reduce him to tears, and all Dean would want is _more_.

His come lands in the shower basin and spirals down the drain; despite his rapidly softening cock, the heat persists in his gut. Manageable, but there, simmering. Waiting.

It has to be the hottest day of the year in California, with temperatures tipping the scale at a hundred-ten and rising. The cemetery is just outside of town, surrounded by an iron fence and each grave decorated with sunbaked wooden markers. The dirt hasn’t been touched in decades, and Dean breaks it open with a shovel, throwing it to the side. Castiel helps and takes another shovel, but does the unthinkable first: he strips out of his coat, then suit jacket—then his shirt, leaving him bare-chested in the elements.

If Dean weren’t incredibly turned on before, he is now.

Castiel doesn’t need to drink, or to regulate his temperature, yet he stands there, ripping open a grave older than Dean’s family tree, practically glistening. As the minutes go on—hours, maybe—Castiel sweats, a thick sheen of it dripping from his nape, down his chest, soaking into his waistband. Dean isn’t any better off, but he has modesty, and sunburns are sometimes worse than bullet wounds. Worst of all, Castiel smells—not unpleasant, but in a way that’s always gotten Dean interested. Even at a distance, he stinks of sweat and salt and _man_ , and all Dean wants to do is touch him, wet his hands with it, get his mouth on Castiel’s tanned skin, every inch of toned muscle.

Ignoring the obvious never gets him anywhere. No matter how many times he tries, he can’t deny that Castiel is gorgeous. Looking at him reminds Dean of all the magazines he snuck into his bag as a teenager, the vintage calendars he owns but doesn’t display. But before now, all he had were fantasies about what Castiel might look like naked, how far his tan runs, the shape of his cock where sometimes, Dean stared a little too long, trying to gauge just how big he really is.

Looking at him now, Dean doesn’t have to wonder, and only by a miracle does he keep his attention elsewhere. Because given the chance—given another time and place—and Dean would shove him to the dirt and ride him until his knees gave out. But they still have another grave to dig and dirt to repack once they finish.

They finish the last grave faster, their combined efforts exposing the casket in less than an hour. Dean pries open the caskets and douses the bones, and Castiel torches them with matchbooks. Smoke rises into the sky, and the spirits watching them flicker and burst into flame. Probably the most routine haunting ever, and they even finished it in the daylight with no onlookers. A win in his book.

But even after, Castiel doesn’t dress, nor does he bother to clean himself up. Their motel is only ten minutes from the cemetery, and the entire ride, Dean can smell him, like a cat in heat. He’s hot, skin no doubt scalding from the sun, and his back sticks to the leather, hands slick where they sit atop his thighs. And his thighs—without his coat, Dean can actually look at them now, notice how they stretch his slacks, how he sits with them parted, almost in invitation. But only if he were looking—Castiel instead keeps his eyes ahead, his head tilted back just the slightest to expose his throat.

He has to be doing this on purpose. There’s no other explanation. Every time they’ve hunted solo in the past, Castiel has never been this forward or fucking _tempting_ , yet here he is, every single one of Dean’s fantasies contained in one body.

The want in Dean surges, similar to what he felt this morning, but more insistent, demanding. All at once, he knows what he needs—and he barely waits to get inside to take it.

Slamming the door shut, he shoves Castiel up against the wall. Inside, the air conditioner pumps in cool air, and Dean kicks it off. They don’t need it now, not with what Dean’s planning. His hands slip on Castiel’s skin, gathering up the scent of him, painting himself with it. In the car, Dean could only smell him at a distance—here, Castiel reeks of sweat, of the salt he’s been chasing all day. His mouth waters, his want indescribable.

Castiel glares at him, a challenge in his eyes. “Well?”

Well— _Well_.

Rather than do something stupid like talk, Dean clasps the back of Castiel’s head and yanks him in for a kiss, one Castiel returns with fervor. Soft pants echo between them, breaths exchanged whenever they come up for air, and Dean tugs at whatever he can find: Castiel’s hair, his belt, the hairs dotting his chest. And what a chest, with pecs he can sink his nails into and dusky nipples in need of a good lick.

Which gives him an idea—a wonderfully awful idea, and he can’t believe he thought of it. “Get on the bed,” Dean growls. Castiel complies, but only just, taking his time as he crosses the room. Dean strips off his sodden shirt and tosses it to the floor, then toes off his sneakers, kicking them aside. His jeans and socks, he can worry about later.

Now, he spins Castiel around and _shoves_ , effectively tossing him onto the mattress. Castiel reaches out to him, tugging Dean in by the shoulder as Dean straddles him. His lips taste good, but his chin even better—then his neck as he kisses every square inch, sucking, nipping, _licking_. That alone makes his cock throb, the taste of dirt and damp and male, with an underlying hint of something he can only describe as angel.

The lower he travels, the harder Castiel tugs his hair, trying to pull him back up. But Dean doesn’t want to kiss him—he wants to _taste._ It takes Castiel another minute to catch on, especially after Dean licks a stripe between his pecs, gathering up his musk on his tongue. It shouldn't feel as taboo as it does, but his cock throbs in his jeans, no doubt leaking and ruining his briefs. Castiel has more skin, though, more left untouched.

Even in places he would never once think about. Dean sucks a mark to Castiel’s pec, then another while he pinches his nipple, keeping it hard. Under him, Castiel writhes and groans, hips rising up to meet his, clothed cocks rubbing at all the right angles. Aimless, Dean laps at every bead of sweat, especially where his scent grows thicker, stronger; yanking Castiel’s arm up, he licks a stripe up the length of his pit, through untrimmed hairs soaked from exertion. Castiel groans, sounding scandalized by it all. “Dean,” he starts, but breaks into a moan as Dean palms his chest, tongue doing its damnedest to chase every last drop.

It’s probably the weirdest thing he’s ever done, but he’s never been this turned on before to do it. Never even thought about it, even in his wildest fantasies, yet Castiel lets him, practically holds him there when Dean starts on the other. Dean moans into his skin, breaths little more than gasps. His heart races, cock dangerously close to coming with the slightest bit of friction. He can’t have that—not yet, anyway.

Breaking away, Dean rears up and palms Castiel’s pecs, swiping his thumbs over his nipples until they peak even further. Castiel ruts up into him, just as winded, his pupils dilated. “You’re filthy,” he says, and Dean doesn’t even disagree.

“You like it,” Dean shoots back with a grin. To his shock, Castiel nods.

After that, he loses track of his intentions. To get off, to get in Castiel’s pants—all of it flies out of his brain, his body moving on pure instinct. He traces his tongue across Castiel’s abs, the dip of his navel, through the coarse hairs leading into his waistband, and it’s still not enough. Not even getting Castiel’s slacks unbuttoned, belt undone, all of it shoved down to his thighs. His cock soaks a wet patch through his boxers, and if Castiel’s scent was strong before, then this is heaven. Dean rubs his face in it, streaking his cheeks with precome and sweat.

Dean gets his mouth around the shape of him and groans, his cock throbbing. His stomach clenches, and no matter how hard he grips the base of his cock, he can’t stop the flood, can’t stop himself from ruining his underwear with his spend. Castiel grabs his hair, and Dean only comes harder, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. So good, and still nowhere near what he wants.

“You came,” Castiel says in awe. Dean can’t deny it, the evidence staining the front of his pants. “What are you thinking about?”

“Your cock,” Dean babbles. “You smell so fucking good—”

“Then take it.” And Castiel shoves his boxers down, exposing the hard jut of his cock, thick and veiny and leaking.

Whatever self-control Dean had—very little, apparently—flies out the window. Like a man dying of thirst, he sucks Castiel’s cock into his mouth, nearly choking on the girth of it. A surge of sweat and musk and _Cas_ floods his senses, all of it rushing straight to his cock, soft but rapidly hardening. Leaning up on an elbow, Castiel holds him by his hair, and Dean groans, taking him to the back of his throat. He shouldn't want it as bad as he does, but Castiel tastes like everything he’s ever wanted, his skin flushed and warm and splitting his mouth wide.

It’s good—Castiel is good, and Castiel watches him as Dean bobs his head, cheeks hollowed. Distantly, he can hear the noises he’s making, animalistic and fucking _horny_ , like this is the best cock he’s ever had in his life. And it might as well be. It’s certainly thicker than anything he’s ever had in his mouth, and scalding, precome spilling across his taste buds. Frantic, Dean pops the fly to his jeans and reaches inside, palming himself while he gets a hand between Castiel’s legs. He rolls Castiel’s sac in his palm, feeling it tighten and rise as Castiel’s breath quickens. All telltale signs that he ignores.

This, this is what he wants. Has wanted all day, is to taste Castiel on his tongue, to hear him groan Dean’s name, to feel his come dripping off his lips. “Dean,” Castiel warms, but Dean refuses to listen and relaxes, just that bit wider. Castiel sinks in, down to the root; Dean can feel the head, can feel it bob and twitch, threatening to spill down his throat. Only for breath does he pull off, spit and precome dripping from his lips and onto Castiel’s cock. Slick, he slides in Dean’s grip, and Castiel thrusts into the circle of his fist, breath caught in his lungs.

A wheeze, then—Dean opens his mouth, catching Castiel’s come on his lips, his tongue, chin. The mess of it coats his skin in white, scalding hot. He tastes like air. Dean swallows him, sating the want that’s been plaguing him all day. Castiel gasps and twitches, still fucking Dean’s hand and still just as hard.

He could come again, and Dean is well on his way to a second. “Fuck me,” Dean begs—and Castiel is off the bed in record time.

By the time he comes back, Dean is already out of his jeans, and Castiel hurls his shoes across the room. His belt, he tosses to the headboard, and he casts his pants and underwear off, leaving him just as bare. Only, Castiel doesn’t give him the satisfaction of watching. Instead, Castiel rolls him onto his stomach and forces Dean’s knees wide, pouring Dean’s lube directly onto his ass. Lukewarm, but it might as well be ice. Castiel shoves two fingers inside, soaked wet and slipping in easy. Dean moans and bites the sheets, clenching around him, fucking his hips back in a vain attempt to get _more_. A third slides in after a long minute, curling just where he wants it.

And he almost comes, only held back by the vice grip to the base of his cock. Turned on as he is, it doesn’t take Castiel long to get him ready and wanting, and he shoves into Dean’s ass in one thrust, to the base. That does Dean in, above everything else. Frenzied, he strips his cock while Castiel fucks him through his second orgasm, the first leaving him loose and pliant. Every nerve ending sings. His lungs fight for air, cock straining in his hand.

Castiel crowds him into the mattress—then, pulls him up to kneel. The belt ends up around his throat, not pressing against his windpipe, but lower, almost like a collar. Lip between his teeth, Dean holds it with one hand, fisting the sheets with the other. He rides Castiel’s cock as Castiel thrusts, pulling him in, sinking in deeper. The belt falls away, only to be replaced by Castiel’s hand. Plush lips whisper obscenities into his ear, sending Dean spiraling higher, cock hard again, like it never even went down.

“Take me,” Castiel orders, nipping Dean’s earlobe. Panting, Dean grabs Castiel’s wrist. “You’re mine, Dean.”

“Yours, Cas,” Dean moans. He jerks himself off as Castiel climbs higher, their breaths frantic, breakneck. “Yours, fucking—make me yours, give it to me—”

“Mine,” Castiel rumbles, and Dean topples for a third time, every muscle clenched. Castiel shoves him down onto the mattress, Dean’s ass tilted at just the right angle, and he finishes with a hiss, then a moan that Dean will remember for years. Warmth floods inside, and in Dean’s fantasies, he imagines he can feel it if he presses into his stomach, filling him in ways that shouldn't be possible, but he craves.

In a mess of sweat and strained breaths, they come down, Castiel’s cock slipping free, Dean’s face smashed into the bedding. They need a shower and some cold air, but Castiel is warm, and his lips feel like velvet where he kisses Dean’s nape. His tongue joins in, and a ripple of want surges through Dean’s gut. _Insatiable_ crosses his mind—maybe he really can’t get enough, and Castiel will undoubtedly try to slake his thirst.

Warm hands flip him onto his back, into the mess they’ve made of the sheets. Lube and come paint his thighs, and Castiel drips with sweat. Dean wants to taste him in the aftermath, to see if it’s any different when it’s from sex and not the sun.

He has a job to do today—and he intends to finish it.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Hire me for all your gratuitously filthy erotic author needs! Meanwhile I need to go stand outside in the cold for an hour. I don't know where this came from but it happened in two hours so enjoy!!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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